Hard and Soft Science
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: Mr. Stilinski teaches middle school physical science. Mr. Hale teaches ancient world history in the room below him. All the kids know there's a feud between the two, and they're all happy to join in and pick sides. But who's really winning The War? SterekWeek2015 SterekFunday


**Hard and Soft Science**

 _Mr. Stilinski teaches middle school physical science. Mr. Hale teaches ancient world history in the room below him. All the kids know there's a feud between the two, and they're all happy to join in and pick sides. But who's really winning The War?_

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Both authors on this account are taking part in SterekWeek via tumblr, so two stories will be popping up each day for the given prompt. Just fyi.

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There were twenty-two students in the period five world history class, split into five groups and distributed around the room. One group was seated under the poster of Rosie the Riveter, portrayed by Queen Hatshepsut. Another was near the large world map by the far wall. A third was in the corner where the textbooks sat on a bookshelf when not in use. The projector in the front middle of the room played host to a fourth group, and the fifth was against the wall of windows in the back.

"Each group will be given one famous, or infamous, Chinese leader," Mr. Hale explained, holding out a hand full of popsicle sticks to group one's chosen leader. "If you don't like who you're doing, there are no trades, so blame your group leader. They're deciding your fate."

The popsicle stick chosen read 'Qin Shi Huang.' Mr. Hale handed them a small set of papers and moved to the next group.

"Your job will be to read about the Chinese leader assigned to you using the documents I'm providing, and then to create a poster, powerpoint, short video, or song to teach your classmates about…"

His voice trailed off, which did more to catch the attention of his students than any talking ever could. When they looked up at him, they saw his eyes fixed on the back of the room. Outside the windows, slowly lowering in from above, was a set of keys tied on a string, gently weaving back and forth like a pendulum.

Mr. Hale's hand went to his front right pant pocket and his eyes narrowed. The tension in the room rose as the students awaited the command they knew was coming.

"If any of you find out who stole my keys and gave them to Mr. Stilinski, I'll give you ten points extra credit on your next test," Mr. Hale said in a low tone. Several students shifted in their seats, already itching to rush upstairs and sniff out the culprit.

"And if we get something of his?" a girl asked curiously, the picture of innocence.

Mr. Hale smirked at her. "The usual reward."

The usual reward was a free classwork or homework grade, a double high five, and a big wall sticker of an explosion with your name on it on the wall. The students didn't really care about the free grade unless they'd missed a homework or bombed an assignment. The high five was what they actually wanted, and the bragging rights that came with the explosion sticker - to say they'd come up with the next strike in The War.

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The War had been going on all year. And if you asked students who had been in Mr. Hale or Mr. Stilinski's classes before, they'd tell you it had been a thing since they both started teaching at the school four years ago. They said that Mr. Stilinski had hit Mr. Hale's Camaro with his Jeep and Mr. Hale had never forgiven him, and that's what started The War. Mr. Hale dumped soda on Mr. Stilinski during their lunch period the next day and the fight was on.

The students were quick to pick sides. Mr. Hale was in the wrong, or Mr. Stilinski was. Damaging a car was worse than getting a little wet, Mr. Hale's students would say. But being humiliated like that because of an accidental nudge was overkill and just plain rude, replied Mr. Stilinski's. Thus each teacher had their own army to fight on their behalf.

They stole things from each other's classrooms, booked computer lab time when they knew the other wanted it, raised more money for fundraisers or charities than each other, wrote things on each other's boards, covered cars in sticky notes, redecorated and rearranged classrooms, and on one memorable occasion, dyed Mr. Hale's hair orange.

Every year, the students heard stories about previous years and tried to recreate or outdo what had already been done. Principal Martin had been forced to intervene last year when someone snuck a sheep into Mr. Stilinski's classroom – though Mr. Stilinski had been thrilled and used the animal as a prop in his lesson for the day (and sometimes as a footrest).

Principal Martin didn't actually mind The War much – except when it brought live animals on campus – because it meant they were constantly raising more money than any other school in the county, had the most spirited pep rallys and spirit weeks, student morale was up, student discipline was down (because all of Mr. Hale and Mr. Stilinski's students were cowed by a look or threats of being banned from The War and never required outside intervention), and both the staff and students were kept entertained by the antics between the two and their kids.

Also they were somehow always able to come up with a way that the back and forth 'attacks' fit perfectly into the standards they were meant to be teaching their students, so she honestly had very little weight to stop it with, if she'd ever wanted to in the first place.

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The next day saw Mr. Stilinski's school ID photo posted on every available surface of his classroom – desks, chairs, walls, doors, windows, textbooks, beakers, manipulatives, faucets, everywhere.

"Heh," Mr. Stilinski let out, taking in the room. "Child's play, Mr. Hale. Child's play."

Mr. Hale's third period saw a sign descend from above again, reading 'Use the force, Hale!' and then marker swords came down and had a small light saber fight until one of them crumbled into five individual marker pieces, leaving markers scattered across the ground outside the windows.

Though he didn't say it, Mr. Hale was surprised that his marker set had gone missing from beside the whiteboard and he hadn't even noticed. They'd definitely been there when he walked in this morning, so Mr. Stilinski had a very sneaky student indeed this year.

Since every student had an email account set up by the school, as did the teachers, Mr. Stilinski was treated to almost one hundred emails over the next two weeks including every possible Star Wars reference or pun ever imagined telling him how he'd picked the wrong side, made a mistake, could still be reformed, had lost his power, would fall with thunderous applause, needed more training, and more.

Though he didn't say it, Mr. Stilinski was impressed with the creativity of the emails and the unification of all the students banding together to enforce the attack. He was lucky to get two sentences about a science project or theory from some of his kids, and here he was getting paragraph long emails based around his favorite nerd classic series.

Rocks of various sizes, and including the types being studied in Mr. Stilinski's class, piled up around Mr. Hale's Camaro, boxing in the wheels. He had to enlist the help of some students to remove the trap before he could head home for the day without damaging his tires or car in general.

Every book in Mr. Stilinski's room was replaced by shojo manga over Christmas break – shocking since the school was supposed to be locked when school wasn't in session. Then Mr. Hale's DVD on Native Americans was replaced with a copy of Thundercats vol 1. Both times, the teacher had to send students to ask for the materials returned, which felt too much like groveling in defeat for the student armies to accept.

It was a matter of honor now.

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"Mr. S!" a male student announced as he entered the room one day. "Can you find out Mr. Hale's computer password?"

"That depends on what you need it for," Mr. Stilinski answered, looking up from where he was drawing the periodic table of elements from memory on the board.

The student shrugged one shoulder. "Wanted to replace his background and screensaver with shifting pictures of donkeys." And he slid into his seat in the middle of the room as the rest of the class filtered in around him.

Mr. Stilinski snapped the cap back on his marker and used it to point at the student. "Marcus, that's why I like you. One hundred percent on that pop quiz about chemical compounds this Friday for you."

A girl in the front row rolled her eyes with a smile. "It's not a pop quiz if you tell us the date and topic, Mr. Stilinski," she chastised, not unkindly.

With a dramatic sigh, Mr. Stilinski pretended to wipe tears from his eyes. "I can't get anything passed you kids these days. You're too smart for me."

Another student replied with a laughed, "Come on, Mr. S. You ain't old or stupid. You just silly."

The bell rang just as Mr. Stilinski gave the student a playful wink and moved to take attendance for the period.

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Derek Hale parked his sleek, black Camaro outside of a two story house on the edge of the preservation, in the middle of the woods, just outside of Beacon Hills. It was a house his family had lived in for generations. And with the simple movement of removing his teacher ID and leaving it in the center console, he let the mantle of 'Mr. Hale' dissolve until Monday morning. Until then, he had a weekend of breathing to look forward to.

The front door opened to a crash in the kitchen.

"Wait, I'm not done yet. You can't be home!" Stiles shouted from the same location.

With a huff of laughter, Derek toed off his shoes and then moved to set his stuff in the office they shared. Stiles' desk was against one wall, farther from the door and the distraction of the rest of the house. Derek's was directly across from it, and was where he placed his things.

As he turned to leave, Derek noticed a print out of a donkey sitting in the middle of Stiles' desk. It was one of the images that periodically showed up on his completely donkey themed computer now. Written on it in black pen were the words, 'This one's my favorite, Mr. S!'

Shaking his head, Derek moved back toward the kitchen. This time there was no crash and no shouted words to stop him. Whatever Stiles was doing, he was done now. In fact, as Derek entered the tiled room, he saw Stiles sliding a mixing bowl back into its cabinet and drying his hands on a dish towel.

"Stiles-" he started, but stopped abruptly.

Stiles hadn't just put a dish away that he dropped. The smell of pumpkin spice filled the air and there were homemade muffins on the counter. There were also fish filets in a light colored sauce and grilled winter squash. Stiles gestured to it all like he was Vanna White.

"What's the occasion?" Derek asked, momentarily forgetting what he came to say.

The look Stiles gave him said 'You're lucky I like you.' "My dad is coming for dinner?"

Derek had completely forgotten. The sheriff was busy and their schedules never seemed to match up just right, but once a month, he tried to come for a meal at the Hale house.

"I would've helped you cook," Derek said instead of admitting to his faulty memory.

Stiles just shrugged and grabbed a napkin to wipe something off the counter. "You had that parent teacher conference and I know you're gonna stay late to grade since the quarter is almost over, so I handled it. Teamwork, right? That's what relationships are all about."

"And here I thought it was flirting at work under the guise of a classroom war," Derek teased in return. That got a few chuckles from Stiles. "Speaking of which. Are we ever going to tell them we're married?"

A sound like 'pffftbfffe' came out of Stiles' mouth. "No. I wanna see how long until they realize the H in Stiles H. Stilinski stands for Hale. I wanna see them use their brains and figure it out for themselves. Critical thinking skills, Derek. It's all about critical thinking skills."

Derek leveled him with an unimpressed face. "Private investigator skills, maybe."

Stiles shrugged as if to say 'Same difference' and then turned back to his food. "It doesn't bother me. I think the 'feud' we've got going on is good for the school and Lydia agrees. Does it bother you?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Derek shook his head. "No. It's something to look forward to."

"Exactly."

The doorbell rang just then and Stiles perked up like a kid at Christmas. He half bounced across the kitchen on his way to let his dad in, but paused by Derek on the way.

"By the way." He pecked Derek on the nose and winked. "I'm currently winning."

Derek smirked at open air once Stiles was gone from sight. The War may not be real for them, but they enjoyed taking part just as much as the kids. It even did wonders for their relationship, letting them work through fights in a way that left no party bitter or hurt. Derek loved how it made Stiles' eyes sparkle and brought a flush to his cheeks, loved how competitive Stiles could get about something so silly – though he was just as competitive, if not more so.

It seemed on Monday he'd have to up his game if he was going to win this round.

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 _fin._


End file.
